


It Doesn't Matter Now

by JaredsBathbombs



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: But I wanted it to be art, Connor's suicide, I don't know why I wrote this, I needed something to do with my mind, Other, Please stay safe, That's it, i'm sad now, there is some vulgar language in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-01 23:43:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13305846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaredsBathbombs/pseuds/JaredsBathbombs
Summary: Connor's last few hours and thoughts.





	It Doesn't Matter Now

Connor sat on the cool park bench. He liked the park at night. It was quiet. Cool. His head swam with emotions that he didn't want to feel, because who does? He thought bitterly. That's how he thought about most things now-a-days. Bitterly. Because how could he not? He felt like he had drawn the short stick that decided the outcome of his entire life. Between the constant anger and the depression that his parents turned a blind eye to, it was hard to believe that anything was going to get better. That there was somehow some great plan the universe had in store for him. He just had to make it through one more year and then he would be home free. _Fucking bullshit_ , he thought. His anger and depression wouldn't just randomly disappear along with graduation. He knew that. That's not how any of this works. He had thought about it before. Graduation. Finally being able to leave this shit-hole, but every time he did he found himself thinking of it like a dream. A fairy tale. And he was too old for those now. He let his grades sink junior year. The college counselor had tried to ask him why he was letting them go but he had just glared at her until she let him leave. As if he could tell her the truth. How could he have told her that he just didn't think grades mattered when he thought he would be dead by the end of the school year? But he wasn't and now his GPA was suffering the consequences of his actions. Larry had stressed it to him all Summer. That he would have to work his ass off to even be able to be considered for acceptance to any college. He had just glared at him and told him to piss off but secretly he wondered if he could do it. He would try, he told himself. He would try and prove that he wasn't just a piece of shit. He had been excited about it for a while, too. He was going to work his ass off and get away from his family and then he would never have to see any of them again. Not Larry, not Cynthia, not Zoe. No one. Maybe he would work his shit out and start a life for himself. Maybe find a nice girl. Or boy. Whatever, really. He didn't fucking care. He'd get into a good school and major in art or something. He didn't really have that sorted out either. But it didn't matter that much, right? A lot of people end up switching majors anyways. But it didn't matter. Everything was going to be great. But it didn't matter. Maybe he would figure out what was wrong with his head. Get a therapist. Get some help. 

But it didn't matter. 

It didn't matter because when the first day of senior year rolled around Connor woke up with the feeling of defeat already planted deep in his stomach and mind. He got stoned first thing that morning and decided that he didn't want to go to school. What was the point? There wasn't one. There was no way he could save his GPA, he decided. 

It's funny how he thought that he was going to die three months ago and yet he was still here. He had spent precious time planning it all out. It would be his final piece of art. He had laid his only suit out on his bed and picked out his favorite tie. It had a segment of Vincent Van Gogh's  _Starry Night_ on it.  _It's perfect,_ he had thought at the time,  _for this such occasion._ He had even cleaned up his room. Tossed out all of the trash. Cleaned the dishes he had found and put them in their rightful places. He had put an organized stack of comic books that he hadn't touched since he was twelve on the shelf of his desk. All of his clothes were either neatly folded and put in the drawers of his nightstand or hanging in the closet. It was pristine. Perfect. And yet, when the time had come to do it and he had tied the tie around his neck he broke down and cried, sliding down his bedroom door and sobbing into his hands. So he had decided not to do it, because if he was going to cry over it then that means he probably thought it was a bad idea and would regret it later. Well, not really, but it had made sense at the time. But it didn't matter now.

Now it was different. There were no tears in his eyes. He wasn't wearing a suit. He wasn't even in his room. This time there was a bottle gripped in his hand that he had taken from the bathroom. This time he wore his normal clothes. That was better, he thought. Why try to make it seem like he was someone he wasn't. He wasn't an artist. It wasn't going to be his one last masterpiece. It wasn't going to be beautiful. It was going to be ugly. Like him. Like everything he had ever done in his life. All the miserable little things that grew to something irreparable. His screwed up relationship with Zoe. The pain he saw in Cynthia's eyes whenever they got into their yelling contests - or, for that matter, whenever he called her Cynthia to her face. The anger flaring across Larry's face when he came home obviously stoned. Everything was screwed up. Everything was his fault. But it wouldn't matter in a little while.

He sighed, looking at the label of the bottle. Acetaminophen. A pain reliever. At least it would be doing it's job. It would be getting rid of something bigger than a headache, though. He laughed bitterly before screwing off the child-proof lid. He poured himself a handful of white, oblong pills and set the bottle to the side. 

He supposed it was cruel of him. He pitied whoever it was that would find him. He hoped it wouldn't be too much of a scarring experience for them. Maybe he would screw up someone one last time. Maybe they'd need therapy to get over finding the body of the teenager at a park. But he didn't want to do it at home. He wanted to do it here. He didn't know why. He just felt like it. Plus there were people at home. People who could burst into his room without knocking and send him to a hospital. But that didn't matter now.

 _Might as well do it quickly, then,_ his mind told him, _don't give yourself a chance to rethink this._ So he didn't. He shoved the pills into his mouth - how ungraceful the act must look - and took a long swig from his water bottle. It was water, of course. He had gone into this sober. No weed. No alcohol. He wanted to make sure that he had a clear mind. That there was nothing obscuring it when he left. He kind of regretted it now, though. He could have at least had the dignity to give himself some spiked lemonade or something to help with the pain that flared through him as the countless pills all tried to do their jobs. 

But he supposed it didn't matter now. He let his arms lay uselessly at his side. Calmly. The edges of his vision blurred and he leaned back against the back of the park bench, letting his head fall back so that he could look up at the sky. It was pretty, he thought. The last sunset that he would ever see. That was painful for some reason. Thinking about all the last things he had done that day. His last morning. His last breakfast. His last meal in general. The last time he would make his bed - he had begun to make his bed every morning ever since the day he cried himself out of his suicidal mindset. The last time he would yell at Zoe, though he supposed that that was a good thing. His chest hurt. His head hurt. His everything hurt. There was a pain that wasn't caused by the pills, though, and Connor vaguely recognized it as regret. His eyes slid closed  _one last time._

But that didn't matter now.


End file.
